Loss and Gain
by Weareahurricane
Summary: ...in which both Sherlock and Molly lose something to finally find each other
1. Chapter 1

She sensed a gentle touch on her forehead, fingers tickling her skin as some wisps of her hair were swept gently to spread on what served her as a pillow (in this house one could be sure of nothing). Her sleep was not as deep now, she could hear something that in shape resembled a converstaion of two men's voices. The warm one cursed and a doorslam followed in seconds. There was a deep-voiced hum of amusement from the other man and a sound of steps in irregular rhythm. Finally, there was yet another a slam of the door, which suggested the unsettled walker having left, too.  
>She finally opened her eyes, and smiled faintly to realize he noticed she wasn't asleep the whole time. She raised her head, noticed it was a couch she has been sleeping on and went on to the kitchen.<p>The door of the St. Barts' Hospital morgue opened slowly. She looked up from above the body, waiting to see Mr Stamford enter or a few men dressed in forensics' typical uniforms carry in a new 'patient' for her. After all, not much company could be expected in a morgue, could there?<br>She sighed. That was one of the things that made her refuse DI Lestrade's offer to join the police forensics team. She used the silence and loneliness quite well; and although the circumstances now were quite different from when she was actually taking the job, she discovered herself to be perfectly fine with her only work company being dead people. Sides, she never liked Anderson. He studied at the medicine uni with her, but two years older. Averagely gifted; massively 'egoed'. And convinced about his Hollywood star appearance. She always claimed that the only star he could be said to resemble was all the cosmetic jobs done.  
>Frankly, lately she minded even Stamford coming; as much as she liked his lovable and trusting character, he was loud, nosy and a bit brick-headed when it went for delicate matters. Well, she concluded, that must be all teachers' thing, after too much contact with adolescents... She would way better like to be left to examine the body of a young woman they brought in yesterday. Emily her name was, said the notes, 25. Same age as herself.<br>She was quite pretty, with a heart-shaped face, now deformed with rigor mortis and long dark hair, now bundled and greasy, a little sweated. The direct cause of death stated at the crime scene was blood loss, which Molly only confirmed now. Carefully watching the slimmed body, she noticed a few things which determined it: suicide. She was wasted, probably for a long time before she 'finally' took the final step. She must have had lost weight terribly, the skin showed signs of dehydration; she probably hasn't taken a proper shower in few days before killing herself, that explained the greasy hair and the smell of sweat on the body. Uncovering her torso, she noticed a thin scar running along a curved line in her abdomen. And that was when the door opened to let two men in.  
>One of them was, as predicted, Stamford, a long-staged worker of the hospital (first as a doctor and then as some administration figure as he started to teach). The other, as she looked up, she certainly knew not. Had she, she wouldn't believe it's possible for a man like this to just walk into her life.<br>Standing still behind Stamford's back, he gave the surrounding a look of apparent indifference, with a sparkle of excitement brought out every few seconds as he saw the bodies.  
>'Molly, dear,' Stamford uttered, as always, too loudly for her, accustomed to the usual silence of the morgue. 'This is a detective, who helps the police. Could you please show him to the body of' he took a quick look at a paper he was holding - 'Arthur Goodman, dead four days ago...? His case is investigated by Mr...'<br>'Sherlock Holmes.' The stranger took a long step to advance before Stamford and reached out his hand. A while it only took Molly to notice how extraordinary his eyes were bright, grayish, with a shade of cold blue and spots of almost black; a perfect one-word description for them would be storm-colored. The look he gave her, just as the ones given all he watched in the morgue, was intense. She could see no emotions in it, simply power. An overwhelming power that intimidated the expecting-all-BUT-such-a-man Molly. 'Consulting detective.' After a while of silence, he reached out his hand. Feeling quite imbalanced by his appearance in her safety zone, Molly shook it gently only after a few seconds.  
>'Sorry, what detective...?' Instead of presenting herself back, which was probably not quite desired, in fact, she thought, she asked a question that, as she also thought afterward, was not much better.<br>'Consulting detective.' Holmes repeated, never taking his intimidating gaze off her face, which made her want to run and hide. Attention oh, that's a new thing. Attention of a man watch out. Attention of an attractive and intriguing man run before you make him pity and laugh at you. This very one gave her a mocking smirk after only five minutes.  
>'When the morons that police always turn out to be in the end fail to solve a case more demanding than a brutally dull massive homicide committed by an idiot, and with a purpose, for crying out loud, they have to seek help. And this world seems to be merciful for them by giving them me to consult, who would, for a change think and solve their problems for them.'<br>That answer quite successfully put Molly off asking any further questions. She looked at Stamford, which saved her from embarrassment she would surely feel to be closely watched by the storm-eyed detective wearing a velvet navy blue suit.  
>'Marvelous. You've made an acquaintance, fantastic. I believe you two can handle the rest. Bye, then.' Stamford, either scared away or bored by the morgue's atmosphere fled as soon as he could. Molly didn't even make it to send him an 'I-will-kill-you-one-day' look.<br>Holmes cleared his throat, still looking at her.  
>'Ah, right, the body.' She muttered, quickly proceeding to an aisle where the still unsolved cases' victims were grouped. She pulled out a great drawer-like table where a mid-aged, bald man lied, all swollen and lurid. 'Arthur Goodman, here he is.' She unzipped the non-permeable sack that the bodies were preserved in. 'But, the autopsy has already been conducted, if I may...'<br>'Conducted by idiots.' He cut in, shaking his head as he bowed to take a very close look at the man's nostrils. 'Stupid enough not to see the obvious murder we have here.'  
>'Oh. Obvious, is it...' Molly opened wide her eyes, for two reasons. One, how come he knew the man was murdered after a minute's observation; and second 'It was you, wasn't it? Who conducted the autopsy?' He asked, not looking up. Instead, he reached a flask out of his pocket and gathered a few tiny little crystals from around Goodman's nostrils. 'Don't take me personal, please. I always say I'm surrounded by idiots and none turns out to be one in the end.' He smiled faintly, self-pleased as he looked at the flask's content. 'And now would you excuse me, I'd like to make sure on my predictions and use some of the equipment back upstairs. Thank you for your assistance, Molly. May I call you Molly? It'd make it way more comfortable as I'd be coming over more often now, that's quite probable. Molly sounds homely, don't you think? Anyway, thank you and get back to Emily's suicide you've been working on.'<br>Molly was left speechless, by all that Sherlock Holmes said. Still, again, what she was only able to utter was:  
>'How do you know...?'<br>'Obvious. The veins were opened with desperate determination, not across, but along. She was depressed for quite a long time before. I don't know why, though. Still, I'm off now. The game is on again.'  
>The only thing she was able to think of just after Mr Holmes left wasn't himself; well, not at least his appearance, for sure. What she thought after he went away was that she knew, why that Emily, 25, killed herself.<p>

After that day, Sherlock Holmes would come to the morgue at least every week, regardless whether it was weekend, holidays or the middle of the night. Throughout the next eighteen months of her life, she accepted him as an addition to the routine, an integral part of the morgue's entity, sometimes bringing in some outrageously odd equipment. When a case needed solving, he would simply come and figure everything out with investigating the chewing gum that a victim had before being killed (as it was in the case of notorious diamonds and jades smugglers from Swansea). Molly was all astonishment to, as she thought, secretly watch him work and brainstorm over the bodies. They never talked much, basically only he did, to himself. Molly rather provided him with equipment,brief explanations of the elementary knowledge pieces he shocked her to lack, or coffee, which he devoured like crazy when thinking hard; she decided not to interrupt him, to just wait and see what he's like.  
>One day or two, DI Lestrade accompanied Sherlock to the morgue, when he overlooked as she conducted the autopsy, completed the report and then he tried to talk her back into joining the cases' forensic team, to which her answer was each time the same.<br>'I'm not cut out for the rush of the investigation, Inspector, you know quite well about my reasons. Sides, either me or Anderson; we simply won't work together.'  
>Still, Lestrade kept trying anytime he came with Holmes, who got carried away anytime there was a body to look at.<br>But, one day, he came and the circumstances made her find herself quite confused with her own feelings she never expected to turn out that way.  
>She met the man everyone believed to be Sherlock Holmes' first and only friend, Dr John H. Watson.<p>

He walked slowly behind Sherlock, supporting himself with a cane; a few inches taller than her, with light blond hair that contrasted with his warm, sun-touched complexion. His deep blue eyes looked shyly around, contrary to Sherlock, whose fierce enthusiasm was clear to read form his storm-eyes look.  
>'Molly, hello.' He nodded, shoving his knee-long navy coat off his arms and put on rubber gloves.<br>'I need to see all bodies brought in within the last ten days. Quick.'  
>Molly investigated the tension growing in his face, as he looked back at the man who came with him. She gasped quietly, slowly forgetting more and more of everything around, just looking at the usual excitement sparkling in his cold eyes, the shade of a faint smile ready to appear in his lips' corners, the wilderness of his raven-black curls left to themselves, brushed only by the blows of late November typical English wind. When he eventually cleared his throat, after what seemed an hour and in fact was barely two minutes, as she knew, perfectly aware of her growing interest, she had to rush to the 'drawers' and recalled the whole of three lately dead people to show them to Sherlock. He rubbed his hand and the smile finally appeared, bowing his lips into a gentle arc.<br>'This one is not connected.' He stated, as soon as he saw the elderly woman with skin seeming to be too thin to stretch over her sharply drawn cheekbones. 'It was cancer, wasn't it? Liver.'  
>Molly gave him a hum of confirmation,which he awaited not anyway. The blond man approached her to watch Sherlock from closer. Before Molly turned away to carry on with documentation she has been arranging, he looked at her and then Holmes.<br>'Um, Sherlock... Why don't you introduce us...?' He clearly noticed him and Molly knew each other before. He even noticed the detective's scarf he claimed to have lost three days before hanged across a rack which was holding .  
>'Ah, right.' Holmes mumbled, not even looking up from a microscope he was observing something with. 'John, this is Molly, she works here. Molly, this is former army doctor John Watson, my friend.'<br>'A colleague, share flat.' Watson smiled warmly at her when they shook hands. His grip was firm, stable. His gaze was peaceful, tiny wrinkles around his eyes' and lips' corners, which added to his typical attractiveness of a mature, manly guy. He was at least a few years older than her, she guessed, something near 35. Lovely person, he seemed.  
>'John! I need you here!' Sherlock called, way too loud for the distance of not even ten feet between them. The doctor apologized quietly and approached. Molly went on to write down the death circumstances of a fellow named Andrew Brown, still not willingly eavesdropping she and the two men were a dozen steps apart and they talked openly.<br>' These two are murders of course, but not serial.' Holmes spoke, finally separating his eyes from the microscope's lens. Watson seemed stunned, judging by the intonation.  
>'How come you know?'<br>The detective frowned before answering.  
>'Isn't it obvious...? It was definitely two random people who killed them, one of which could only be... Interesting. See, the girls were both seventeen, murdered with a knife, in Cheapside, at night, considerably pretty. They only got what they asked for.'<br>'I beg you a pardon, what?'  
>'Oh, John, observe, for God's sake...! Look, this one was cut with a sharp knife, possibly one that could be used by a professional hunter, the moves were well-forced, determined but no thought over whatsoever. She was probably raped and killed after trying to fight and get away. Two cuts only, but deep enough to bleed to death. And the other one was killed by accident, probably by a boy her of a bit below her age, some fifteen. She was found in the slums, so it's quite clear she was just robbed by him, desperate for food or anything. She much showed her wealth off, see the hair, professionally cared, the signs left by jewelery around the neck and wrists. Sides, she wore perfect manicure, certainly not to be seen in Cheapside. Obvious she seemed an easy target. And he needed money, probably for his mother's or younger siblings' medication his mother was either sick or drunk too much to stand up and stop him. Took a kitchen knife and went out to the streets. Saw her, ran up and demanded money. She denied, obviously, then he stabbed her, as high as he could reach, so you see he was younger, shorter than her. About five feet five inches, so as I said, aged near fifteen. That's why the stabs straight below her ribs and not near the neck, as in the first case. He panicked, had no idea where to hit. Shocked, he stabbed her at least ten times, shallowly before she eventually fell to bleed out. Then, he took her purse, phone and jewelery and ran away.'<br>'Unbelievable.' Sighed John Watson. The whole analysis lasted no more than two minutes, with Sherlock's eyes quite certainly set on the bodies.  
>The detective hummed, quite surprised by his enthusiastic reflection. Molly quite shared the doctor's opinion on his genius, yet was a bit afraid to be taken too seriously if she ever voiced her admiration out. So, she just listened and smiled faintly as long as the two men moved towards her.<br>'Thank you, Molly.' Sherlock muttered, reaching for the 'seemingly-lost' scarf and wrapping it around his neck. 'The case of that girl, Emily, from almost a year ago, do you remember...? I still can't figure out, why a girl like her, young, attractive and engaged, would commit a suicide.'  
>Molly took her gaze off him and looked away, down on the tips of her two-inch high heels. So she was engaged...<br>'She lost the child she was pregnant with.' She spoke in broke voice, quietly. 'Not mentioned in the documentation.' Whispered to herself. Sherlock seemed struck.  
>'Obviously...' He covered his face with his hands and shoved them to run his fingers through the raven black curls, on the verge of shock. 'How did you know that..?'<br>Molly shook her head, her back hunched. She turned away. Sherlock winked twice, his face always perfectly indifferent. He cleared his throat, John looked at him, a little angered.  
>'Well, anyway. Solved. Not a serious issue. No psychopath. Unfortunately.' Sherlock stated with his deep, low voice, putting his coat on. She turned over her arm to see him send a text, probably to Lestrade. 'Come on, John, I just got a text from Mycroft saying he is yet again unable to deal with some unbelievably dull affair.' He walked on to the door, his eyes glued to the phone's screen, his fingers tapping the keyboard like crazy. John sent her an apologetic smile.<br>'Sorry for him, Molly. See you again, take care.' 


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Thank you, loves, for the reviews. I am sorry with all my heart for the inconvenient formatting, you have to blame it on haste and my computer's unwillingness to cooperate. Hope this one is better. Obviously, I own nothing. Enjoy!

As much as, with every next visit, Molly got to adore John Watson's way of being, his relationship with Sherlock quite unsettled her. All of their common acquaintances (total number of which being four) claimed Sherlock Holmes never had any friends, which, in view of his attachment to John giving him his attention, quite confused her. However, as it was mentioned before, she quite successfully combined the sympathy for John with the strange jealousy he evoked. Quite obviously, the nature of their friendship couldn't be in the slightest bit romantic, but still, John seemed to be one of the very few people who really _got_ to Sherlock. She envied him that, although being perfectly aware she was the one to blame about that, for her inexplicable petrifying fear and embarrassment.

It showed yet once again, when – after a month that made her get used to the soothing presence of the calm and reasonable, also 'not-quite-a-proper-genius' doctor, that saved her from embarrassing (and even so, strangely desired) one on one situations – someday in the week before Christmas (at least, as the calendar on her apartment's wall said), Sherlock Holmes came to the morgue alone. He repeated the routine of dropping his coat and scarf on some table or the floor, his gaze never landing on her figure hunched with tiredness. He rubbed his hands, of cold rather than enthusiasm. As far as she knew, after the Chinese smugglers' case there was not much going on to worry the London police forces, which was clearly reflected in Sherlock's absent-minded gaze and slow, sleepyish manner.

'Blood reservoirs...?' He asked in dull tone, his voice hoarse a bit. Molly was, by his question, brought down to Earth, from amidst her thoughts, dimmed and confused in the mist of constant 'what-am-I-doing-here-anyway?' feeling. She pointed the narrow doorway in the back, leading the way. He followed, as soon as she advanced ahead of him, looking at her head to toe. _She_ could be an interesting investigation object after all, too, someday...

Sherlock Holmes had not many people in his life, whose face he would be able to identify with a name, a memory and, also, although it was not shown, a feeling. In general, it was his big brother Mycroft (Mycroft Alfred Holmes; 33; a fight they had after Sherlock tore most of his books to pieces; upset), their Mommy (Ariana Holmes; 56; the face she would make anytime she walked into his room to see all his experiments; homely), DI Lestrade (Gregory Lestrade; 39; his reaction the first case Sherlock solved for the police within seven minutes; needed), Mrs Hudson (Emmeline Hudson; 62; when she started regularly making groceries' shopping for him; still saying she wasn't his housekeeper; looked after), Anderson (Neal Anderson; 35; their encounter at the pink case; vastly irritated) and last but not least, John (John Hamish Watson; presumably 32; the dinner at Angelo's during the pink case; _not alone_). And he was soon to realize Molly also should be added to the list as (Molly Anne Hooper; 25; when she figured the suicide cause/started wearing lipstick at work; positively intrigued). With them, he was just fine having all the dull human sociability needs satisfied, which he needed to function at his best efficiency. Just the essentials, to keep his hardware in order.

Molly opened the door, leading him into a cold room with the walls lined with shelves that had blood containers arranged on them. She backed off, letting him approach, take three of them out and proceed outside to the long table in the middle of the relatively well heated room, where there was all the examination equipment placed. He prepared three specimens with the blood from the containers and then set two more glass plates.

'A needle, will you...?' When she passed him an ordinary blood-test needle, he stung his fingertip and let a few drops on the plate. He set the specimen and then set it onto the microscope and looked through the lens. When Molly, as usual, used to the hopeless lack of contact between them, regardless of how much she wanted it, was ready to withdraw, there was a single word from Sherlock.

'Stay.'

Her legs stopped, just as did her heart for half a second. It was in the least expected.

'Isn't John coming...?'

Sherlock sighed quietly, his eyes still glued to the enlarged image specimen. He spun the magnification handle.

'No, he's with _her_ for Christmas.'

Molly was all confusion, staring at his silhouette bowed, his jacket zipped tightly to his chest; his face tense. She had no idea John Watson had a _her _he would choose over Sherlock...

'...And who could the _she_ be?' She asked, quite encouraged by being answered at all. Sherlock remained indifferent, only switching the specimens on the microscope's plate.

'The doctor that gave him a job as an MD in her clinic. They've been on three dates before. The name's Sarah.'

'Would he be staying at hers the whole week until Christmas...?' Molly found that surprising, although understandable. Had she anyone to spend the holidays with, she wouldn't wonder a second... For Christmas one shouldn't be alone. And in previous years, if one excluded cats, she was completely on her own.

Her words made Holmes look up at her in slight disbelief.

'It's Christmas Day today, Molly.'

That stunned her. However, she got over the shock quickly. The time when days were just random sets of identical hours, she thought, was gone for good. And somehow she missed it was _Christmas_...! For crying out loud, she has certainly been consciously out too long ago... She wouldn't think she would get used to Sherlock Holmes in only eighteen months and then get back to the state she was almost out of at the moment of taking the St. Barts' pathologist job.

She needed change. And humans' company. Alive humans.

'Is it...?' She just muttered. Sherlock nodded before looking down again. For him, the times she wanted to go and never return were always there; holidays went barely noticed right by him, who lived his life hour to hour. He now switched the last specimen and then reached his hand out.

'Could you...? I need a sample of a woman's blood.'

She was quite surprised, but quickly approached and reached out her hand to get the needle from him and cut the skin. Yet, instead, he took her hand into a firm grip, turned it upside down and gently stung her fingertip. His hold tightened as he steered the blood drops onto the plate. When the specimen material was ready, he instinctively – as it seemed – rose her palm up to his mouth to lick the bits of the remaining blood off, as he did after cutting himself. Then, it clearly occurred to him it wasn't his own hand and loosened his hold immediately. He went on to sprinkle a drop of a mysterious, dense, yellowish liquid on each of the plates.

Molly was left immobile, speechless with a bundle of ambivalent conclusions and feelings forming inside her tired head. It took her almost a quarter to realize Sherlock got what he wanted and was about to leave.

'Is that it...?' She asked, uneasily crossing her arms below her breasts; she had no idea what to do with her idle hands. 'No more examinations?'

Sherlock simply shook his head, sipping the rest of the coffee she has made for him some time after he came in, as usual.

'I'm waiting now; it takes three days for the acid to well sink in. I'll come then to see the results.' He has put his coat on in the meantime, now looking for his scarf. When unsuccessful, he shrugged and turned to leave.

'Your scarf, here.' He turned to hear Molly's voice, his silk gray scarf in her hand stuck out. He hummed and took it, his gestures careful and withdrawn. His eyes rested on Molly as he draped it around his neck.

People don't have archenemies. They have people they like, people they don't like, boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, parents, children...

_He _had names, ages, facts, memories, data. But when among these came emotions, the data turned into _humans_. And humans needed care, just like he unconsciously did, being one of them himself.

A wonderful insight from John that was. And what Dr Watson showed with words, Molly sometimes showed perfectly in actions. She was one of the few people in this world (of two only, in fact, the other being Mommy) who successfully reminded him that they all sometimes happen to _feel_, even him, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, a proper genius.

And what do people who feel do in such circumstances...? Sherlock cursed in thought. He way more preferred serial murders analysis and goat autopsy, thanks very much. Still, there was no killer. Not even a goat. There was Molly, looking shyly away, every now and then glancing at her watch, which said it was close to 11 p.m. He hummed.

'Well.' He astonished Molly to sit down on one of the few chairs that were there in the morgue. 'You're missing a Christmas tree here.' Talking, wasn't it one of the things that the feeling people did...? Once in a while he could practice.

'I bet you're, too, at your place.' Molly replied, looking down at a button of her lab apron she was occupying her fingers with.

'John brought one last week, one – naught.' Sherlock said and then there was silence. 'When are you going home?' He asked, looking at her again after a few seconds' staring at the bodies drawers. She looked up to meet his intense storm-colored gaze and blushed faintly.

'Just now probably, after you're done. Contrary to common appearances, there's not much to do in here.'

He tried to smile, standing up.

'Come on, then.' She was all astonishment, her heartbeat speeding up quite a bit. 'We can just as well take a cab together.' Considering how eager she surely was to keep contact with anybody, Sherlock was a little surprised there was no skull she would talk to, especially considering the amount of dead bodies around.

'What are you waiting for, get the apron off, the coat on and move.' He spoke, coming up to her, shoving the loose uniform off her arms and throwing it on the chair he was sitting on, clearly irritated by her shock-related clumsiness. 'Where's your coat?'

"I... I'm getting it' She reacted quickly, reaching for her knee-long, beige and brown checked, buttoned coat and leading the way to the door. That was a turn of events she would never expect. Maybe it _was_ Christmas after all...


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Thank you for the reviews, I'm really happy you like it. Own nothing. Enjoy!

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><p>They were off to the street lined with lamps flooding the snow on the pavement with golden light. On they went for a few minutes, until a taxi hailed for them.<p>

'221b Baker Street.' Sherlock gave the address , before Molly even asked whose place they were going to first. Well, clearly, Sherlock got carried away by his thoughts and was convinced it was John going home with him, as always.

It took them six silent minutes of diving, with 'Love Actually' soundtrack's number one, 'Christmas is all around' playing from the cabbie's speakers. They stopped before the tenement and waited for a few minutes until Sherlock was down to Earth again. Before getting off, he looked at Molly's face once again, and yet once again wondered. What do people do on Christmas...? They exchange wishes, hugs and pecks, don't they? He had to do it anytime Lestrade forced him to attend some police depot dull Christmas parties. So, he leaned to rest his hands on Molly's arms and pretended to touch the air above her cheeks with his lips.

'Merry Christmas, Molly.'

She blushed purple to sense him so much and so close. The mixed scent of his clothes, heavy,nostrils-irritating after shave, coffee and the stuffy odor of the morgue drove her smelling sense crazy, as the heat beaming from his body pressed against her, which the little space in the cab made for. When he took his hand off, there was a sudden knock on the cab's window.

'Sherlock, is that you...?' He winked surprised and got out of the cab to smile and hug a short, plump, gray lady in a black coat and a hat, carrying a purse and a cotton shopping bag, which he took from her immediately.

'Mrs. Hudson, you're back.' He spoke, apparently forgetting about Molly. However, that was prevented by the lady.

'And is that a friend of yours, Sherlock? Oh, shame on you, boy. Why don't you invite her upstairs, come on.'

As much as she seemed lovable, that was an unquestionable order. And Sherlock was, for the first time has Molly seen that, visibly surprised and a bit confused. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson proceeded to the doors to turn over her arm and gaze at them awaitingly.

'Dears, are you coming?'

Sherlock gazed at Molly, his look disoriented with confusion.

'Come upstairs, Molly, will you. Mrs Hudson is no joke when you don't do what she says.'

He seemed dead serious. The cabbie seemed irritated. Molly seemed close to going mental of too much contradictory emotions. But, the time was short and she had to make a choice. Sherlock's impatient gaze added to the decision of her getting off the cab.

The little lady in the doorway smiled. But then, as they both proceeded towards her, there was a shout of Molly's name in the street.

'Molly Hooper, could that be you...?'

She looked from behind Sherlock at a tall, fair woman with beautiful, almost waist long hair of sand color and bright grayish eyes. Thought rushed through Molly's head as she started associating facts.

'Harry!' She exclaimed, yet restrained from running from Sherlock's side. After all, there was the 'angry Mrs. Hudson threat' still in the air. The woman approached instead.

'Sherlock,' Molly spoke, when they exchanged looks of curiosity. 'this is my oldest friend, Harry Watson. Harry, this is Sherlock Holmes, my...'

'Fiancee..?' She smiled mischievously, shaking his hand gently.

'Not quite.' Sherlock smiled faintly, putting on a mask of superficial cordiality. 'The sister of John, you must be.'

'I have a brother, if you're asking.' She seemed quite off-tracked and freaked out.

'An army doctor, lately back home from Afghanistan...?' He suggested, watching her expression tense.

'How do you know that, Mr Holmes?'

He smiled, mockingly this time, only in his lips' corners. There was a call from Mrs. Hudson from behind. Molly looked up at him.

'Can you apologize to your lovely landlady for me, Sherlock? I'd love to come over, but you see, I haven't seen Harry for _ages_ and God knows when we'd have the chance to meet again...'

As much as Harriet Watson was stunned and disoriented by what she just witnessed, a meaningful blink from Molly calmed her.

'Obviously.' Replied Sherlock, looking at Molly one last time. 'Merry Christmas Molly, Harriet.'

'Merry Christmas, Sherlock.'

He went on to calm the unsettled by the sight of 'his friend' walking away Mrs Hudson down.

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><p>'Aah, someone's got a thing for my little brother's flatmate, don't we...?' Harry smiled, her eyes sparkling as she sat down on the couch at Molly's place. She was quite eager to stay for the night, her clothes were sticky with at least two weeks' dirt and there was still a dash of poor-quality whiskey one could sense in her breath. But she was a friend and Molly could not turn her back on her. That one time four years ago was more than enough.<p>

It was back then, late September, when Harry met her and said those three words that shocked the five-years-younger Molly.

'I've got a girlfriend.' they were. To the withdrawn, inexperienced Molly, in whose world there were only happy man and woman marriages with lovely children, it was a news quite incomprehensible. She tried to hide her dismay, something that resembled _loathing_. But Harry was smart. She noticed and was shocked by her best friend leaving her. Left alone. Without parents, without Johnnie-boy as she would call Dr Watson, who was then away in Afghanistan. Without the girl she confessed all her troubles, regrets, hopes and worries to. Only with Clara, who she quickly married. And quickly divorced to replace her love with alcohol.

It was quite a bit of horror to really watch Harry and see her absent-minded, glazed look, the nervous, unsure ticks of her palms, definitely alcohol-lack-related and how terribly skinny and lurid she went. She has not seen her throughout those four years. And when they finally had coffee and a microwave Christmas pudding (God, bless supermarkets), one thing occurred to Molly. _She_ made Harry like that. Had she been there for her, maybe she could have taken the whiskey's place and not need a reunion now. And they wouldn't be talking for four hours now (and crying for at least two in an uniting act of silent apologize) , until Harry touched Sherlock's issue.

She showed no grudge for Molly, telling her about the divorce. She omitted the drinking problem, but Molly knew that anyway. She was there when Sherlock deducted that by John's phone; and besides, it was well visible. After all, she was a doctor.

And all seemed well. Harry was fed, sober and had a place to take a bath for as long as she wanted. And after she was back from the bathroom, the talk got more comfortable, lighter and a bit more typical for a Christmas holiday of two long lost friends.

Molly cleared her throat after a few highly suggestive sounds from her friend, wrapped in a white blanket on the floor before the turned off TV screen.

'No, not quite. We're colleagues.'

'And I am the queen of Spain.' She repelled mockingly. 'Had he been in my area, I wouldn't wonder. An attractive, tall, sexy deep-voiced man... And a genius, on top of that. A perfect match.'

Molly smirked, wrapping her fingers around a white mug topped up with hot chocolate.

'Not for a plain Jane like me...' She's had enough of thinking of Sherlock Holmes and being in despair about his rather purposive obliviousness. For over a year now he's had her pretty confused with showing her feelings, giving bravery and honesty a shot and trying to get to him. He needed that, she liked to think sometimes. Someone who never let anybody inside the mystery zone of their loneliness, even Sherlock _had_ to feel deserted sometimes. But she was not strong enough to break the glass barriers that aliened him from her.

'What plain Jane would work at a morgue, honey...?' Harry smiled, looking up at her. 'You're so much more. You just don't show it, you're afraid.'

What she was saying was all true. Molly often got angry with herself for being too withdrawn and to afraid to live _with_ people, not just around them, so bad that she wished she could kick her own bottom. And still, there was nothing she ever did to take a step forward. There was past, all the back stories, but it was not much of an excuse. It has been three years almost, after all...!

'See? It's even worse... A corpse-surrounded plain Jane...'

'Oh, don't give me that. It's just you're not really you with him, and I understand that. The fun you used to be at the uni, the smart girl that always knew all the answers, the wit, the charm... That's you. But you hid it. I don't know what happened, but it made you hide it. You just need something, or, preferably, _someone_' she gave her a wink here – 'who would pull that all back to the surface. Mr Holmes, at best, wouldn't we like it, eh?'

Molly took a second to hide her face in her hands. Blast, how come they met the on third day after four years apart and Harry still could always make her confront the truth she was the most ashamed and afraid of...? That was a bit of a shock for her, but only a second later, she gave Miss Watson a smile. And that was when her mobile buzzed, for the first time she remembered in at least a year.

'Who be that?' Harry leaned immediately to grab Molly's mobile.

_Good you took a day off. Different without you at the morgue._

_SH_

'Aww, that's sweet.' Harry smiled faintly giving her the phone after reading the text.

Molly looked down at her, her gaze heavy with tired annoyance.

'Don't give me that no more, would you. He's just bored to death, with your brother still staying at his girlfriend's.'

Harry seriously spit out a sip of her coffee on the couch, leaving a little brownish spot on the leather.

'My little Johnnie-boy got himself a girlfriend?' Her eyes went wide open with excited surprise. 'Who is she, is she pretty?'

' The name is Sarah, and that pretty much all I know. But you're not stealing her from him, are you, Harry?' Molly smirked, leaning to support herself against the couch as she sat on the floor, too.

'She wouldn't be my type, if she fell for a short, dull goblin my little brother happens to be, so no worries.'

'Fine.' Said Molly, still playing with her cell in her hands. The hour, it said, was almost 2 a.m.

'Oh, crap. Time to sleep, it's definitely work tomorrow.' She got up and finished the chocolate.

'Feel free to sleep where you want, but in any case, there's a guest bedroom next to mine, more comfortable.'

'Thanks, Molly. For everything.'

'No problem. Just sleep.'

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><p>Here it is ;) Comments welcome<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Here comes the next chapter, I hope you've been waiting. Enjoy ;)

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><p>It was Scotland Yard, the next day, 8 p.m. DI Lestrade went downstairs to the forensics' room to meet Anderson there.<p>

'Hey, Neal, time to go home.'

'I can't just yet. I still can't figure how freak solved that one...'

'He's no joke, huh?'

'He's no human. Honestly, sir, have you ever seen him laugh...?'

'Yeah. A time or two...'

'Talk to a girl to take her out?'

'Not quite.'

'Go to a pub...?'

'Never.'

'Get drunk at a party...?'

'Nope. But, now that you mentioned, curious what he'd be like...'

'That we can still find out... Isn't there that New Year's Eve party held in two days?'

'Come on, Neal, just as he is, he wouldn't simply get drunk for us to watch.'

'Bet...?'

Silence. Two minutes. _He's a freak after all._

'On what?'

'Get freak Holmes drunk at a party.'

'_For_ what?'

'One month, every day, a Guiness on me.'

'Fair.'

'So, you invite him, and see you then, sir.'

'Fine.'

They both leave the room to finally go home.

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><p>'Don't feel like it.'<p>

Sherlock was laying curled up on the couch, his back to the world, which, at the moment, shrank to consist of John Watson only, who was back for good, to only meet Sarah at work and just occasionally go on dates. Remorse, was it, after leaving him alone for Christmas...? He was zipping his button-down, long-sleeve, light blue shirt, standing before the couch, looking at Sherlock's back, irritated.

'Come on, Sherlock. You've done that before, right...? Every two or three years, right...?'

Sherlock only gave out a murmur, which John eagerly took as confirmation.

'Every time Lestrade invited you. And this year, he did, too. Come on, it can't be that bad,'

'Only if you're going, too.' His speaking was still rather mumbling. 'If I'm to be sober, someone has to come to balance these idiots.'

'Of course I'm coming, I haven't been to a party for years, no wonder considering army affiliation.'

'No wonder, indeed. You wouldn't be putting this shirt on, being an experienced party-goer.' Sherlock got up and went on to his room, to open the closet and, having putt off his (only one, probably) t-shirt, took out a dark grayish shirt.

'But you _are_ wearing a shirt...'

'Part of my image.'

John bridled up and went to change to, five minutes later, get down to the taxi wearing an usual sweater.

'Not really better. The shirt brought out your eyes at least.' Sherlock mumbled, probably not even aware of what he was saying. John's jaw dropped for a second; and then he recalled it was Sherlock Holmes he was talking to. There was probably nothing that he said and what should surprise John... Still, remarks as such, pretty much suggesting he's a regular, faithful reader of _'Elle' _couldn't pass as not unsettling at all.

Fortunately, they soon reached the destination which turned out to be a not much attended club of elegant allure that Sherlock, after a while identified with the one he was made to come to a party at two years ago. They got off and entered.

'Holmes! Watson!' There was a loud welcome from Lestrade, drowned out a bit by the crowd gathered. How they managed to summon almost fifty people, when at work John met only ten at best, it was a mystery. Greg handed them both a glass of wine. The party, although they came at least ten minutes late, was not really on yet. People were only wandering around, glasses in hands, talking to friends.

Something was obviously missing, concluded Sherlock. And it was still missing after he's had the third glass (offered by Lestrade with exceptional cordiality) and after the music was turned on by Sally Donovan, whom he has for the first time seen in a dress. And then the wine went mysteriously missing to be quickly replaced with some more-percentage beverages supplied by the irritating being under the name of Anderson. Sherlock indifferently agreed to having a glass poured, just because he felt taking this party sober he wasn't capable of. And John did, too. And there was _still_ something missing. Not dancing, although he assumed every party had to be a bit of dancing. But, it was 11 p.m. only. He had all the more reason to assume something will get going after midnight. Meanwhile, he just sat, trying to figure out what was it that was there last time (two years ago, which he clearly remembered) and now was lacking.

'Sherlock...' John's voice was already a bit changed by the amount of alcohol in his blood. Happens to the best... 'D'you think it's fine that I asked Sarah to come?'

'You didn't, John' Sherlock said calmly, contemplating the surprisingly low alcohol tolerance of his doctor, as John once or twice called himself. 'True, you wanted, but, then gave it up yourself.'

'Did I...' John squinted his eyes, taking his gaze off Sherlock to what Sally Donovan made serve the more drunk people as the dance-floor. He was not eager to move himself just as were Sherlock, Lestrade and a few more men he couldn't quite associate with names. So, he went to bring them yet another glass.

'Bottoms up, Sherlock.' Gregory found himself near the two. 'To...'

'To telomeres.' Sherlock uttered, his gaze, although slowly, going slightly dimmed.

'I'm not quite sure I want to know what that is... But I can drink to that' Lestrade shrugged and emptied his glass and so did the other men. The DI's eyes met Anderson's look and that made him quickly bring them two next rounds. They took quickly, as he ordered next toasts. Sherlock came up with hearing impediments and John with the Solar system to drink to. All was fine. And Sherlock, a minute later, exclaimed excitedly.

'Obviously!'

'What, Sherlock...?' Asked John, leaning dangerously close to look him in the eye.

'I know what's missing...!' He stood up and wobbled instensely. 'Greg, we'll be back.' He placed his hand on Lestrade's arm and pulled John beside him. 'Hail a taxi.'

They left within a minute. And within the three next, the cab stopped at 16 Devonshire St. They rolled out of the cab, which they told to wait. Luckily, there was a lift in the tenement, so there was no risk of falling down the stairs.

John knocked on the door and it took them three minutes' waiting until it was opened.

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><p>There. Any comments and welcome and they really help me with the plot, so don't hesitate to review.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Own nothing. Enjoy the next part ;)

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><p>'John, Sherlock... What are you doing here...?' Molly quickly closed the door as much as possible for them not to see her pinky pj's pants and a baggy t-shirt with a fresh coffee spot.<p>

'You're _missing_, Molly.' Sherlock said, contrary to the usual, very unclearly, but with overwhelming despair in his tone.

'New Year's Eve, Molly. Now way you're spending it alone.' John added, at which Holmes nodded enthusiastically and mumbled 'You don't even have a cat'

'But it's late, John. No point in my coming for the end of the party...' Molly felt that was one of the few arguments that could work with them; they were not an easy-going duet, and when ramped, which they definitely were, it was probably only ten times worse, at least. And the fact that there were the two men she would the least expect to get drunk now at her door, beyond any doubt, mellow, she found hillariously confusing.

'Oh, don't give me that. You've got five minutes, we're waiting in the cab downstairs.' John gave her a tired look with a bit of pledge in it. 'You're missing at the party...'

'Oh, shut up. Molly, five minutes. You're not there – I'm coming to drag you down there, and no matter if you still have your pj's on then.' Sherlock remained calm and seemed deadly serious. Supposing he, even sober, _would_ be able to do that, Molly nodded quickly, shut the door and ran for the deserted closet she had now to find a nice dress in.

She barely made it; when she locked the door, she heard Sherlock curse as he probably tripped over a stair. She ran down to meet his dimmed, but quite cheered gaze and they went on to get on the cab and return to the club, Molly feeling the most uneasy ever.

John, who doubtlessly expressed his approval of Molly's appearance with quite a few undefinable sounds combined with gazes and smiles of positive surprise, courted her with enormous grace (for a heavily drunk man) as they entered the one of club's spacious rooms. Just in time to join everyone looking at a great, modernly-designed clock above the door in suspense. Lestrade, Anderson and sergeant Donovan were holding champagne bottles almost open and the three lucky newcomers were each quickly handed a glass, as everyone before them.

'Seven... Six...!' John quickly joined the countdown, but only him. Sherlock just stared, but surprisingly at the bowl of peanuts and a blueish teddy-bear of mysterious provenience seated beside it on a table. It was probably the last thing to be expected in a nightclub where a group of police affiliations is having a New Year's Eve party.

'...aaand... Happy New Year!' John and Lestrade embracing his arms distracted Sherlock from internal debating whether the toy belonged to Sally or one of Neal's children and made him almost smile and drink up his champagne.

'Happy New Year, boys' Sally Donovan rolled over to them, rather not steadily on her feet. 'Have a lot of money, a lot of girls... and a lot of nasty killings, freak.' She even added, gazing at Sherlock, which only confirmed she was unconscious of her words. Holmes gave her a lips-only smile and turned to walk out to the small balcony. After all, air and fireworks were worth leaving the company. Sides, he noticed John walking out there, too. And he was surprised to find Molly assisting him as they stood and watched the explosion of colorful flames and sparks in the dark night above Thames and the City. Clearly, he noticed her aliened and felt... sorry? Sherlock was not drunk enough to consider that yet. In fact...

'Happy New Year, Molly.' He was just saying when Sherlock went out. They toasted and hugged, which made Holmes realize one thing – he must have missed the friendship that his doctor and his 'reminder-about-humanity' were on a good way to develop. Ever since they met, when John came along to the morgue, he would talk to Molly, at first out of pity he could have for her loneliness, but then, could he really get to the _her_ beneath the shyness and confusion...? Obviously, Sherlock was perfectly aware of her infatuation with him, but on the other hand... He made her _smile_, faintly and shyly, just to hide her feelings which failed anyway. John made her _laugh_; with him she talked, she joked, turned into a completely different person – a young, truly bright woman with strong opinions, impressively naïve ideals and a considerable sense of humor. Sherlock acknowledged the fact long ago. But, anytime he was reminded about it, something new occurred to him.

He cleared his throat meaningfully as the two went on to talk as if there was no midnight interruption.

'John, no way she could... Oh, Sherlock, it's you.' She mumbled, instantly hunching her back a bit.

'I've been called that.' He nodded tucking his hands into his coat's pockets. Molly had no jacket on and was slowly getting goosebumps, he noticed. Oh, well. He had an image to keep. And John only had the usual sweater, with probably not much underneath. Curious, wasn't it...?

'Honestly, are you enjoying yourselves...?' Within the next half an hour, they stayed on the balcony, with the rest of the company either unconscious or dancing and John finally asked the question, in between of the two rounds of champagne he kept bringing them. Sherlock remained silent, his sight set on the Thames' banks and Molly gave him quite a meaningful look in response.

'It's bloody cold.' She just murmured. 'And in there, it's bloody... hopeless.'

'A taxi home...?' John smiled faintly, glad to have found support. He did look for response in Sherlock, but the black-haired man kept looking away. He had to have his shoulder tapped to come back to reality and get on the cab.

The men sat next to each other, opposite to Molly. For the first minutes, it was silence, with John's eyes glued calmly to Molly and Sherlock's to the cars passing by, which – judging by his face going even paler than the usual – made him dizzy.

'Blimey, Molly,' John spoke after a moment, 'you do look pretty.' Only now he seemed to notice her knee long, silky, one shouldered dress with the creamy-beige soft fabric hugging her body with graceful gentleness. Her hair was tied loosely and she wore a bit more make up than usually to work (the one she wore at work was only noticed by Sherlock and now John could see some, too).

'You do _are_ pretty. No, not pretty.' Sherlock spoke, ignoring John who justly doubted the grammatical correctness of his words. 'She walks in Beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes...'

His deep voice almost echoed in the silence. John was staring at him, mouth opened, and Molly seriously wondered, how come she was still alive after the ridiculously odd night, not able to believe it was true. It wasn't logical in the slightest bit... Not even possible to expect, not believable. And still, was happening.

'Since when you're a poet, Sherlock...?'

'Since when you decided to remain oblivious about the genius of Byron...?' Sherlock repelled, his eyes wandering from John to Molly, at whom they were finally set and so remained for the next few minutes before they had to get off.


	6. Chapter 6

Here, the next part. Own only the endless love of a fangirl ;) review, please, and enjoy

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><p>As soon as they stood on their own feet, Sherlock took three steps, then stopped and turned.<p>

'John!' he shouted at the top of his lungs almost. That shocked John, who, astonished blinked twice in immediate confusion and shouted back. And then Sherlock leaned to tap his right knee with the top of his hand and smiled.

'I turned off your legs.' The joy beaming form his voice made Molly smile widely involuntarily. But, she was shocked to see John's face going pale, his gaze frightened and himself falling to the ground, as if he's really lost the control over his legs. When he looked up at Sherlock with pledge in his eye, she couldn't help and burst out laughing. Luckily, there were no people in the street.

'Come on, Sherlock, turn them back on...! How am I supposed to walk up the stairs? Molly...!' He called eventually, with pretense in his voice sounding so funny she barely kept from laughing again.

'Sherlock, do, turn his legs on. He needs to go home just as much as you do. Sides, if you leave him, who'll make breakfast and coffee for you?'

Although she has heard he ate extremely rarely, New Year's Day could be a good occasion.

'You could.' He replied, perfectly calm. And to that Molly blushed purple, as much as she kept her determined tone.

'That would mean me staying at yours, which I'm not, unfortunately.' She said, not quite believing it was herself. Dear, what alcohol made of people...

'Unfortunately, indeed.' Sherlock said, straight to her face, before leaning to tap John's knees again. The doctor must have been so buzzed to really believe and act as if Sherlock has taken the power over his legs, to now, 'on' again, stand up and 'goodbye' Molly in a more polite way.

After back on the cab home, Molly sighed. A wicked year was on the way...

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><p>Well, maybe it was not as wicked as its first day. For it was now weeks without Sherlock, John or even Lestrade showing up at all. Harry seemed to have fled away, too. Molly was slowly about to consider really buying herself a cat, if there was no hope left for her...<p>

She even agreed to take three night shifts a week, desperately seeking escape from the empty, selfless apartment she claimed to be living in. Those nights she usually spent online, with the corpses being cruelly not talkative. Chatrooms, she discovered, were a true blessing.

_hi. how are you down there? you in for a coffee?_

She blinked, off-tracked to see the line typed in from St Bart's IP. Waited a few seconds.

_it's Jim, the IT newbie. night shift bloody boring, eh?_

_Quite._ She typed, smiling faintly. Some time ago she met him, a man close to her age, with dark eyes and a soothing, warm voice, completely unlike Sherlock's. He was lovely, she thought. Calm, quiet. A good load like her, in fact.

_so, how about the coffee? see you upstairs in five?_

_Fine._

* * *

><p>From that day on, they had night-shifts together, each time talking for hours over coffee. Molly found Jim a good listener, a sincere and trusting adviser and – when he asked her out for the first date in over a year – he turned out to be romantic, too. She felt very thankful to him, stable and appreciated. At first, true, she was afraid it would be like before, but... About that man, there was something unsettling form the very start. And Jim was all different; no way he could be like <em>that<em>. He couldn't change so much.

For five weeks now she has been as happy as she could be, still however remaining infatuated by Sherlock, who eventually came, this time to investigate a case from long ago, of a boy named Carl Powers or alike. In fact, as soon as Jim came in (as he got to do every now and then in work days), she was curious of Sherlock's reaction.

'Who is that...?' He asked after half a minute of Jim's silent presence.

'Hi, I'm Jim.' He approached, reaching out his hand, which was perfectly ignored by Sherlock, all devoted to the specimen he was busy observing. 'I've heard so much about you...'

That made the detective look up at him.

'Gay.' He uttered, rather quietly, but still loudly enough for Molly to hear. What was that supposed to mean? They dated for some time now... They kissed, for God's sake! She was even hoping to make Sherlock jealous... And now he dared say Jim was _gay_...?

'Pardon...?' She just demanded, approaching. 'We're together, Sherlock. Office romance, did you miss that?'

'Nothing. Hey.' Sherlock repeated, all indifferent to her words. Jim's eyes were glued to him for a couple minutes more and after it was obvious the detective was no longer paying the slightest bit of attention, he turned to Molly, whom he seemed to have a bit forgotten about.

'So, I'm seeing you around six-yish, eh, Molly?' He smiled and left quickly. She waved at him, which went unnoticed, and immediately turned to Sherlock.

'What do you mean, gay?'

His storm-colored eyes landed on her disoriented face.

'Obvious. He wouldn't otherwise be leaving his number under the tray.' He looked back at the specimen, simultaneously grabbing a scrap that was indeed left under a tray next to his hand and giving it to Molly. It _was_ Jim's number on it.

'I can't believe that...' She just left, unable to define if she was sad about Jim, angry with him or angry with Sherlock, or was it all, or maybe none.

'Congrats, Sherlock.' said John after the door closed behind her.

'Isn't that just time saving? The sooner she knows, the better.'

'But it's not at all nice. Is the word in your dictionary at all?'

'N is too far in the alphabet. D for don't care is more comfortable.'

'But not true.'

Dr John Watson was, as usual, right. Only, neither him nor Sherlock knew that yet.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly waited, correcting her make-up in the mirror in the hospital hall. Yet, instead of Jim coming, there was a text from him.

_some went wrong. can't meet. sorry. Jim_

She quickly texted back saying all was fine. Even at her job she sometimes had to stay overtime.

Only after the situation repeated for almost ten times in the course of the next two weeks, she got to find herself considering Sherlock's words, who himself was busy with the bomber case, very frequently coming to the morgue. The last one was a middle-aged man, working in some art museum. Impressive the solution was, as far as she knew.

And on the next day after she tried calling Jim for the third time (not having heard from him a single word for over two weeks), her mobile ringtone broke the silence of he morgue.

'Molly,' she was stunned to hear Sherlock speaking, 'tell me John is at the morgue.'

'He isn't.' She replied, calmly, instantly going nervous about his panting and traffic noise she heard in the background. 'What's going on?'

'Stay.' He said aloud, decidedly demanding. 'I don't know, but leave it to me. You won't be of use.'

He disconnected. And Molly was left speechless yet again. She simply sat there for at least an hour, thoughts running wild inside her head until she was able to calm down, stand up and accept the report of conducting some child autopsy.


	8. Chapter 8

short one but I hope it's nice anyway. Enjoy and review )

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><p><em>'I'll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes.'<em>

The stormy-gray iris was barely visible from behind the dilated pupil. Sherlock opened one eye up, suddenly recalling Moriarty's words. John's kidnapping, out of which they barely got out alive (and all soaked, from jumping into the water not to get killed by the explosion) and this threat made Sherlock seriously consider sticking the next nicotine patch to his forehead to deal with the six patch problem it was slowly getting to be. It was all not quite explicable. And tiringly unbelievable, from the human point of view.

He would surely pity Molly. He himself wouldn't say that the gayish 'boyfriend' of hers would turn out to be a psychopath consulting criminal.

_I'll burn the heart out of you..._

What could that mean? Was he supposed to follow the clue of John being the next victim...? What now, _who_ now...? The only heart Sherlock could have was sealed, in pieces, in his _list_. Mommy, Lestrade, John, Mycroft...

The pink phone buzzed.

_You have one new message._

It was a text. He called for John, reading it out.

_Sherlock help me. MH_

_ps he says he can 'as well cut it out'_

Sherlock sprang to his feet, pulling his coat over the t-shirt he used to sleep in usually. Mycroft texted only when couldn't speak. Or in serious trouble. Or when forced to by a psychopath, probably this time not wrapping bombs around him, but posing some other threat to his life.

'Hail a taxi, John. To Downing 37.'

'Isn't that...?'

'GO!' That was probably the first time Sherlock got carried away in solving a case. Blast, Moriarty was good. And besides, he would never expect himself to be so shocked and desperate to save someone. Which only added to Moriarty's considerable genius. He gnashed his teeth, irritated.

They reached Mycroft's place within fifteen minutes, which could have cost him life. They run up the stairs to his suite and opened the door hastily to, most ridiculously, find the older mr Holmes in a nightshirt, with a cup of coffee in his hand.

'Sherlock...? What are you doing here? Perhaps I should remind you that when I have a few days off, I'd love to have a rest, even from you'

Sherlock's gaze went blank, himself deep in thought, trying to set the puzzles right. The buzzing phone distracted him.

It was a yet another message.

_Miscarried deduction, handsome. Time is running. So is blood._

_come, beg you_

The burning desire to bite his own bottom of anger took over Sherlock as he buried his face in his hands, exclaiming 'Obviously!' in a rather unusual, desperate tone. Without a word of explanation to Mycroft, he darted out of the suite, with John, totally confused following him in seconds. It seemed that Sherlock was eager to run under a taxi only to stop one quickly.

'Devonshire 16' He panted to the cabbie. 'Quick! There's no time, idiot!'

He was all anxious, his fingers running crazy. He seemed deaf to John's questions, looking absent-mindedly out of the window.

When they stopped, he threw a 50-pound note to the cabbie and ran. He had to force the door open with a kick and when they entered, John only recalled he _has_ been here before.

Sherlock looked fiercely around the place, his hands moving involuntarily. Finally, when he looked at the kitchen floor, he fell to his knees.

'Call an ambulance, John!'


	9. Chapter 9

Here, the next chapter ;) huge thank you for the reviews, and, please, forgive me for the life story of Molly Hooper, this level of hopelessness should be punished by imprisonment. Anyway, enjoy ;)

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><p>It was Molly laying there, by the fridge, curled up into a last predicament of self-defense. There were bloodstains over her arms and face, surely at least three bones broken. What was however the worst were the shallow cuts all over her body which made her lose significant blood amounts. Her breath was shallow and her eyes were rolling. She kept moaning some words, which Sherlock identified as 'Jim, too' before she passed out.<p>

After three minutes of John's panic and Sherlock's hidden despair, the ambulance arrived. Molly was taken to St Bart's, where there was instantly a dozen workers by her side, with John all the time there. Sherlock went along too, but stepped out of the room, just in time for the pink phone to buzz again.

_Well done, sexy. And the next round will be even more exciting. But, you'll have to wait for it. A nice surprise it will be, surely. Hope you'll miss me for the time being_

_xx_

_M_

Sherlock surprised himself to sigh with relief. And a second later feel really _tired_. He went back into the room, to take a chair and sit by John for fifteen minutes before they were ruthlessly demanded to leave by the nurse.

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><p>John called, which was unusual considering how seldom he did that. Still, obviously, it was serious, so Sherlock could do nothing but take a taxi to St Bart's and find the room where John remained by the side of the now asleep, pale but conscious Molly.<p>

'Sherlock, we need to talk.' said John, walking him outside. 'You see, Molly's condition is stable. Only physically though.'

'That's understandable.' Sherlock was apparently calm, yet he tucked his hands into his coat's pockets to hide them from John as they curled into fists. What made him do that...? Was it a _feeling_...? Interesting experience, he had to admit.

'And she won't get better in here. Nor would she back at her place, you know she only spent nights there in fact...'

Sherlock nodded, lurking over his arm to look at the sleeping woman through the glass door. 'So...?'

'So. She needs somewhere to feel safe. Safe from Moriarty. And at the same time she needs to have someone to need her, just like she felt with him.' John barely kept calm. Yet, he had to say what he had to say. He had to convince Sherlock.

'Obviously, she has not many friends to need her, me being one of the few.' The doctor went on. Sherlock felt obliged not to expose him to the fact his despised sister was also an important figure in Molly's life. Harry was important, true. But only when sober enough to realise that.

'And you're probably the only man in the world that can stop Moriarty.' John looked in the detective's face, sincere pledge in his eyes. 'I wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch, Sherlock.'

'No need, I have a bed big enough.' Well, that stoned dr Watson. Clearly, Sherlock must have been expecting that (and probably he has even talked to her doctor, as could be presumed) and assumed that as the only option. But, his words made him clear his throat and turn slightly pink in the face.

'As much as I am flattered, Sherlock, I really do not mind the couch...' He spoke, aloud and in a quite decided tone.

'And who was talking about you...? That _is_ selfish, John.' Sherlock's face remained calm and cool, as always, contrary to John's, who opened wide his mouth, trying to process what he has just heard. Could it be the Sherlock he's known for almost a year now...?

'Ah, she's awake.' The detective stated, gazing over John's arm. 'Why don't you go bring her the happy news, eh? I'm waiting for you two downstairs.'

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><p>Molly opposed to John's offer as long as she had arguments. No matter how important Jim grew to be for her, could she move to live with Sherlock? Well, surely, she would rather be living with John, Sherlock existing alongside, as she thought it was. And that would be great. John had all the comforting warmth she needed. And Sherlock... Sherlock was the man Ji- no, there was no Jim anymore – Moriarty hunted, but, strangely, obviously also the one and only he <em>feared<em>. But still... She really tried to deny it, but John wouldn't listen. And, what was more, he said Sherlock wouldn't listen, too. And there was her doctor, all happy to hear she had a place to live with her friends and fully supportive for the idea. So, she just had to clench her teeth and walk down to get on the cab that drove her to her place and then – with all the clothes and other necessities from her place – to 221b Baker St.

It was 6 p.m. when they got everything done and Molly was more or less settled in John's bedroom, who agreed (in fact, insisted on) sleeping on the living room deteriorated couch. And then, he left, claiming to go shopping, from which Molly was severely banned and told to rest.

She sat on the couch, curling her legs up to embrace her knees. She needed to think. Get over all that happened. And maybe try to believe it all really happened and she had not been having a nightmare for almost two years now...

She heard Sherlock typing something on his notebook quickly in the kitchen (which reminded her more of a mad scientist's lab than an ordinary kitchen). Only after over an hour he approached – still with his coat on – and sat near her to turn the TV on. _Who's the father_ was just about to begin.

'How are you...?' He uttered, some time later, when he seemed to have recalled she was there at all. Molly did not give him a look back.

'Tired. But good. Better than at the hospital. Thank you. For everything'

There was an undefinable hum in response.

She waited a few minutes and then took the risk of speaking again.

'Sherlock...? How did you know it was me...?'

This time the hum clearly signified a question.

'How did you know it was me you had to find...? How did you know it was me he's _had_...?'

'It was not that obvious from the start.' He spoke but only after a minute or two. 'You have too, haven't you?'

Molly went pale. She was terrified to think that he could know, but after all he was a creepy genius. She swallowed, feeling an obstacle forming down her throat.

'What do you mean?' She muttered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She noticed he took a position similar to hers and smirked faintly.

'You've lost your child, haven't you? That was the only thing that took time to figure. And the text made for the obvious rest.'

Molly looked down. So, he knew.

'How did you deduce that?'

Sherlock cleared his throat.

'The first clue was that when you told me the cause of that young woman suicide. Obviously, you understood her, but were stronger enough to live on.' He took a second's break. 'The second came with time. Anytime you were scared or uneasy, you'd wrap your arms around your belly protectively, just as every pregnant woman does with her soon-to-be-born baby. And, although that occurred to me later, you drank very cautiously and ate so too, as though you've had some limitations and rules to follow about that. Pregnancy sounded a reasonable explanation. Moreover, something big must have happened that made you change your job from forensic to morgue attendant... Something depressing, to make you want to quiet down. And something connected, which I can't seem to figure...'

Molly was on the verge of bursting into tears. Of shock, tiredness, despair. But she kept it a while longer.

'Do you want to know?'

'As long as you want to tell.'

'That's all true. I've been pregnant with a child, I had a boyfriend, we've been together for almost a year.' Now that she said that she thought it was funny how she has changed. When she was 23, after six moths together she was pregnant and engaged. And now, aged almost 27, she has been in unrequited love with Sherlock for twenty one months and she never even had any hopes. 'I was working for the Scotland Yard back then, on forensics. That was when I met them all, Lestrade, Anderson and so on. And then, in my third month, there was this serial brutal assaults case I worked on. And one day, there were more clues left. They made it easy to figure. After DNA tests I knew that the one who assaulted, brutally hurt over ten people, three of whom died and the father of my child was the very same person.'

Her voice broke for a second, which made Sherlock get up and rush to get her a cup of tea. When he was back, she could more or less speak on, wrapping her fingers around the mug.

'Coming home that day, I had a bad feeling. He was drunk and still somehow sensed my shock and fear. How could I fall for such a man...?' That one was muttered quietly. 'He saw through me. Beat me, hurt. After I noticed him grabbing a baseball club, I lost consciousness, only to wake up in the hospital. And my child was gone... He took it from me. Took it. And Jim was just like he's been in the beginning. Soft, sweet, sensitive, comforting. And turned out exactly the same'

She sipped a bit of her tea and then put the mug away on a table. She yawned, gazing at the TV screen to hide the tears still ready to flow.

'That's a terrible taste in men, eh?' She finally uttered, looking more and more blankly at the TV. Sherlock remained just as he was, only letting his legs on the floor.

'You should sleep a lot Molly. And even that will get better.'

She cast him a shade of a smile, clearly too tired to remember it was him. Her eyelids went down after only a few minutes. Soon so did her head to surprise him with resting on his shoulder.

John was back half an hour later. And it seemed lucky that it was only his jaw, not also the bags that dropped too see the two like that.

'How long is she asleep?'

'Almost two hours now.'

'Oh. I then guess I should carry her to bed...?'

Sherlock astonished him to shake his head lightly.

'It's fine like that. She sleeps hard, healthy. And it's no difference to her anyway.'

There was a shade of a mocking smile appearing on John's lips.

'And to you?'

'Either. John, don't you have work tomorrow?'


	10. Chapter 10

Here, the next chapter. The last one in fact. All my dear Readers - take it as a thank you for reading, liking and reviewing. Hope you enjoy!

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><p>It<em> has been three weeks today<em>, John Watson thought, pulling on a beige sweater and bending his back to look into the fridge and get a breakfast. It was hard to get used to, a change like this, to now find fresh food stuff in there instead of body parts. And even harder to think that if he only agreed to that, he would have a nice warm meal ready every morning; a result of Molly escaping idleness. She was granted a month off work now and was clearly excited to soon be back to the morgue, where she had specimens, autopsies and their examination.

John took out a banana and a few slices of cheese to make toasts (which weren't covered by must and good only for Sherlock to use in some strange experiment), just in time to see Sherlock entering the apartment.

'And where have you been?' He asked, not even looking up from the toaster. After a year he got well used to his random disappearances, which only would worry him if exceeded three days in a row. And sides, he had like five minutes to leave to make it to work, and Sarah would murder him if he came late again.

'Derbyshire.' He replied, shoving his coat off to land on the kitchen table which he successfully turned into an improvised lab. The coat ruined the ideal row of test-tubes that John has previously carefully arranged. 'You made me curious with the goats...'

'Oh.' John was almost swept off his feet, half-sitting on a cupboard (since there was obviously no room at the table) with his plate and coffee.

He would never suppose that a random question he asked Molly last week would really be taken that seriously. To a simple question what she'd like to do when done with the morgue, she sighed and expressed her wish of, in some twenty years, completing a year-long PCP course and then having a peaceful life as an ordinary doctor in the countryside in Derbyshire, where she grew up. When asked back, John realized he would find himself quite well in the role of a voluntary worker, in dog shelters or kindergartens, with writing articles for medic periodicals every now and then as the necessary income source. When he finally turned to Sherlock (who was 'busy' lying on the couch in his night robe, as usual), he got no response. When John suggested, in jokes, that he would make a perfect goat-keeper, he heard a hum. And so, now he was all astonishment to see he actually was taken seriously. And Derbyshire...?

'It's 15 past eight, John. You're late.'

John mumbled a swearword, with the last bite of his sandwich still in his mouth and ran outside, not having the opportunity to crack the shell under which Sherlock kept hiding his humanity. The shell was growing less and less thick recently, as he thought, stopping a taxi.

Molly was awake an hour later. She went downstairs, with her hair still a bit wet, dressed comfortably. As much as her crush on Sherlock still was there, she was now noticing that he is actually also just a human. Like, not just, of course. But, a human, just as her, after all. And he paid no attention to her anyway... Curious if she would still think so, knowing where he was gone for the night before.

'Ah, Molly. Perfect.' She heard him call when she opened the fridge to get milk for her tea. 'A bit of help would be marvelous. Could you come here, please?' He was staring at some microscope close-ups, which she saw on the screen to be of different colors in the range from light pinkyish peach to sand orange.

'Pass me my phone, please. Jacket.'

She was lately quite often asked to reach into a pocket of the very jacket he was wearing and take his phone out. As much as she could, she got used to it, but for the first time, the heat beaming from his body _did_ drive her crazy. And purple. Now, she took the mobile and placed it by the microscope so that he could reach it and looked for a while, sipping tea, with her arms crossed over her breasts. Sherlock suddenly stood up and turned.

'And that you're here, it's good. You could make a good case study.' He took his mobile, turned the timer application on and then shocked her to lean down, turn on the timer and then, out of freaking nowhere, press his cold, yet surprisingly soft lips against hers. That obviously made her gasp and turn lobster-red instantly. He drew away in a second and, with a faint smile, looked at the timer and turned it off.

'Four point seventy three. Now that is a record.'

Molly winked twice, outraged.

'I beg you a pardon, Sherlock...?'

'Oh, isn't that obvious...? I'm investigating the relation of complexion type and the probability and visibility of blushing. You are a record.'

She cleared her throat, stepping back.

'And perhaps have you included how unfair that one was...?'

'I can't seem to figure what you mean, Molly.'

She lately even learned to give him a disapproving gaze of tiredness, which she willingly did right now.

'Just say, if it was John who kissed me, the result wouldn't be like that...' She murmured, turning away to the living room,where she wrapped the pillows and blankets on the couch more to look like there was no man sleeping on it only a few years ago. There came the distant ring of church bells, signifying it was Sunday, 4 p.m. and it was mass time. For Molly however it meant that she had only two hours until John was back from work, probably starving. When he had the opportunity, he would quite eagerly use it to test her cooking skills eating the meals she made for three weeks now. God, hadn't it been for the case solving every three or four days, Sherlock's nicotine patch amok and violin playing, the strangest laboratory equipment in the kitchen, a skull on the fireplace which the men (and even her, too) called Jack and Mrs Hudson's constant innuendos concerning John's and Sherlock 'intimate friendship', their coexistence would well seem a happy family life. Yeah, you can all go and laugh now.

'I'm off shopping, Sherlock. Be back in twenty.' Instead of an usual hum of confirmation, he asked her to buy gelatin. Whatever that had to do with the blushing, she shrugged and left. As much as she liked living with the two of them, she was quite tired with the idleness by now. The morgue at least included intriguing, shocking or disgustingly detailed autopsies once in a while...

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><p>She was surprised, how warmly all the people she thought didn't even know her welcomed her back at St Bart's. The first week really did much to make her feel significantly better about herself. Still, she still wasn't permitted to go back to her own place; surprisingly, this time it was rather Sherlock than John who opposed her leaving.<p>

The routine was well on the way back. She enjoyed her work, Sherlock and John kept coming quite often. The only difference from before was that they sometimes went home together. Home. That was 221b for her now.

One day, after Sherlock was asleep for the first time in five days when she left for work (she couldn't resist taking five just to stare at the peace of his face, the gentle smile on the lips of a tired man who finally indulged in sleeping and the way his raven curls spread on the pillow. And then she had to run, having set the autopsy time for 9 a.m.

She was arranging the files in the computer when her phone buzzed, which stunned her. However big the changes in her life were, that thing of no one calling her remained quite the same.

_None would get angry if you went home 2 hours earlier. Come, very important. Need you._

_SH_

The text said, which made Molly instantly lurid with panic. Sherlock only texted and called her three times. And each time he did, there was something dangerous going on. She quickly got the boss' permission and ran outside to get a cab to 221b.

She ran upstairs, panting heavily, her heartbeat rushing wild. She pulled the doorknob and was shocked to bump right into Sherlock's chest. Not giving her a second to speak, he placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and leaned to kiss her, which took her breath. After a second, he wasn't gone, so she decided to check if she was still alive. Her hand went to be placed on his forearm, when he slid his palms down to rest around her waist. She heard him sigh hoarse, when for a second, the drew his lips away. But then, she felt his body closer and closer, until the heat it beamed with made her stomach twist. And then, his arms wrapping tight around her, he pressed his lips against her again. With no idea of anything else to do, she slowly let her fingers climb up his chest to finally rest on his face.

And then something cracked. She gasped fiercely to sense his tongue sliding along her bottom lip, clenching her fingers in his curly hair and drowned in the heat of _tasting_ him. Sensing him. Fully. Getting to him, breaking through the last layers of his defensive allure. And as much as curious that was, she still felt largely dominated by him as his hands were growing _possessive_.

'The urge I had to kiss you has never been that unbearable, Molly.' He panted, only parting their lips for half a second. When he led her a step back into the apartment, she smiled as much as she could without losing the connection. Her hands went, from his hair down to the open collar of his shirt.

'Oh, so it _has_ been there before...?'

She felt his lips bend into a light smile as he sensed her hectic fingers dealing with his shirt's buttons. He himself found it rather easy to pull her t-shirt off.

'Obviously.' He muttered, leading her to lie down on the couch. 'Even a proper genius as me, am a man.'

'Oh, that's a surprise' She only made it to giggle for a second, when he hissed, struggling with her bra, as they stood up form the couch to switch to Sherlock's bed. After all, as much as Mrs Hudson would be happy, John could be largely off-tracked. He sent her an offended gaze and bit the tip of her nose as a punishment.

'You know, when I end up in bed, I would probably just stay there for the next twelve hours; the sleeplessness makes for that.' He muttered, finally having set all the zippers free.

'I won't deny I was only hoping for you to say that, Sherlock...' She replied, kissing his chin hungrily.

'Molly! Is Sherlock out again...?' Only forty minutes later, they heard the door slam and John calling. Molly, with her cheek pressed against Sherlock's chest, sent him an alarmed gaze. He only stroked her back soothingly and cleared his throat.

'Not really, John. I'm right here, in my bed'

'I hope you wouldn't mind it if I turned down the offer to join you- OH, DAMN!' Dr Watson exclaimed, his eyes going wide as he watched the scene. 'What on Earth are you doing?'

'If it's not obvious to you, you must indeed be a hopeless doctor, John.' Sherlock smirked, remaining perfectly calm in the highly embarassing situation. Molly buried her face in his arm.

'Come on, don't say you didn't see that coming.'

'Um, well...' John rose his hand to scratch the back of his head, confused. He eventually smiled in disbelief.

'So, you were serious about the goats in Derbyshire...?'

'Obviously.'


End file.
